


begin again

by ourdivineashes



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, Nonbinary Character, Post-Episode: s2e26, Resurrection, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 13:57:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15316962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourdivineashes/pseuds/ourdivineashes
Summary: this is not the first time.they gasp for air. they curl up into a fetal position there on the ground. they clamp their eyes shut, overwhelmed with the urge to cry and fighting against it.'not today,' they think. they don't know why.





	begin again

**Author's Note:**

> ***MAJOR SPOILERS FOR EPISODE 26***
> 
> [arrives 15 minutes late with starbucks] i still don't think i've fully processed everything that happened in last week's episode, i'm not sure it will hit me until they play again this thursday. but in the meantime, here's something that i didn't even know was sitting in my brain until i dumped it out here at starbucks.

this is not the first time.

 

they gasp for air, a broken and rasping sound that cuts through the night and startles a rabbit hiding in the brush. coughing, wheezing, they curl up into a fetal position there on the ground. head is aching, and they clutch at their gut where the phantom pain burns bright and then dull. they clamp their eyes shut, overwhelmed with the urge to cry and fighting against it.

 

'not today,' they think. they don't know why.

 

crickets chirp in the night air, and perhaps the howl of a distant wolf. the moon is partially obscured by dark storm clouds that are moving in their direction, and they take a quick glance around the surroundings for some sort of shelter. a cluster of trees stand some distance away, and they grimace as they stand, breathing heavy through the pain to hurry over to the shadows.

 

it's hard to see in the middle of night, but somehow they can make out the dark splotches of blood ruining the silken tunic and intricately embroidered coat. their heart pounds, breath catching tight in the chest. fingers tear blindly at the clothing, desperate to get at the skin beneath and find the wound. their hands shake.

 

the skin is clean, dry. all that remains are small lines of scars across the expanse of the torso. old scars, skin raised and roped. nothing to match the spill of blood.

 

'what did i do?' they think. the questions of 'who am i?' or 'where am i?' sit in the recesses, shying away from the light of acknowledgement.

 

thunder rumbles in the distance, angry flashes of lightning provide brief glimpses of the horizon. wind shakes the branches above them, and their hands shake like the leaves. they are frightened. they are alone.

 

they are small.

 

sleep does not come, but the morning eventually does. they walk back to the place where they woke by the side of the road, and find two blades lying nearby. covered in blood, discarded and forgotten, handles intricately carved. they pick them up, surprised by the ringing of recognition in their ears. for they do not remember, but their hands do know. closing fingers around the hilts, finally they can stop shaking. somehow, this is right.

 

they swing the blades around, the heft and mobility comforting. they begin walking.

 

for the first day, they stay from the edge of the road, only ever keeping it within sight, careful to avoid any passersby. there are a few creeks nearby, and they know how to tell if the water is safe to drink, if this berry is safe or that plant is poisonous. there is not time or energy to question this knowledge. they take a moment to scrub out as much blood from their clothes as they can. the effort is mostly in vain.

 

they find a small village on the second day. they do not know the questions to ask, or what answers they could give to others' questions, so they stick to the forest edges and make a plan. a plain woman has left clothes out to dry on a line, and when the time is right, they grab a clean pair of pants, a simple shirt and cloak. a purse had been tied around their waste, and so they leave a gold coin in the pocket of another tunic hanging to dry.

 

finding a safe place hidden away, they step out of the ruined clothes and take a moment to rinse their skin in the creek. the water provides a reflection, and they pause. they haven't given much thought about it as they traveled the past couple days, but here, standing naked alone in the water, there is nothing between them and what they see now. the purple skin, covered in deliberate scars. the horns curling back over a violent violet tumble of hair. tattoos spilling along the curve of neck and shoulder, down along the arm. colors, bright and splashing.

 

red eyes staring back at them.

 

the word 'demon' comes to them, unbidden, and they shudder at the dissonance of it. like a shard of glass placed in the wrong spot to fix a broken window. wrong and right, all at once.

 

they put distance between themself and the village, worried to be seen in the stolen clothes. without the bloody silks, they become more comfortable sticking close to the road. the weather is growing colder, and there are few travelling even during the day. the few folks that they do cross paths with, they do their best to avoid eye contact, mind their own. another village appears on the horizon, larger than the last, and they find a tavern where they can grab a bite to eat.

 

"will ye be staying in town?" the tavern mistress asks, her voice lilting and beautiful.

 

"only passing through," they say, and they are surprised by the brogue of their own voice. the way the 'r' catches on their tongue. the next part comes easy. "i'm afraid i went a bit too hard on the drink, woke up with most of my things stolen."

 

"how terrible!" the woman responds. she covers her mouth with delicate fingers, lips forming a small 'o' of concern. "i hope ye weren't hurt."

 

"not as far as i can tell," they say. "and whoever it was that took my supplies, it seems like they were too dumb to find my coin purse. so at least i have that going for me." they don't know where these lies come from, how they slip so easily from their mouth, but they know it must be easier to parse than any truth they could provide. "anyway, it's my own fault. i'm alright with taking this fate as my punishment, it could've been much worse."

 

at the words 'fate' and 'punishment,' they see her eyes dart up to their horns for just a flash of a second.

 

"well, i'll see if i can pack ye a basket to carry with you," she says. "and i'm sure that old Marcus has some things he could sell ye just up the corner."

 

"much appreciated, love," they answer, and finish their meal before paying. she bundles up some chicken and a loaf of bread, a corked pint of mead, and pushes it all onto them, insisting on no charge.

 

"i'm living blessed here," she insists. "it's my job to pass on blessings to others."

 

they walk up the street to the shop on the corner that she indicated, and buy a pack, some water skins, and some rough burlap to wrap up their swords away from prying eyes. perhaps they feel better having them in hand, but they know the blades would make them a target.

 

and farther they wander. no destination in mind, nothing guiding them along this path, but the yearning for discovery. they are no closer to answers than they were three days ago, and the ache of emptiness yawns open in their chest.

 

their purse begins to grow light after a week or so, and they know that they can't carry on like this. not forever anyway. another village along the path forward, and this time they ask the tavern host if there is anyone looking for a hired hand. there is a bit more suspicion in this man's eyes, but he directs them to a farmer on the outskirts of town.

 

"anton," he says. "son went off to zadash looking for other work, and he en't moving around like he used to. won't be able to pay you a lot, but it'll be a fair wage."

 

they thank the man and follow the directions to the edge of town, to the little farmhouse sitting on the edge of a wheat field. anton is in his mid-fifties, fit if gaining a bit of a paunch in his belly, but he admits that his back isn't what it used to be. "i won't lie, i'm glad of the offer. stefon, my boy, this life just weren't for him. i was sad to see him go, but i'm proud of the boy, regardless."

 

"as any good father should be," they reply, nodding in acknowledgement. "he's lucky to have your love."

 

"oh hush," anton waves him off, blustering a bit. "anyway. folk around here, they can be a bit quick to judge, but i can see to the heart of man, and as long as you can do your part in helping me keepin' this place square, you won't hear a word of complaint from me."

 

"and i appreciate that," they replied.

 

"we'll get you all set up, my boy's room is mostly cleared out and i don't mind havin' a bit of company," he says. "what do i call you, anyway?"

 

they pause for a split second. nobody has asked up to this point, they hadn't given it much thought beyond the question of the unknown, the identity that remained elusive from their mind. a name has power. a name creates a person. shapes how they think of themselves and what they might become.

 

"navin," they say. "you can call me navin."

 

this is not the first time. but it is the beginning.


End file.
